


Unsuitable Boyfriends

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Author's Favorite, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, inseparablesfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“I was telling him all about our family dinner situation, and he said he actually lends himself out as an unsuitable boyfriend to people who want to get their own back on their relatives.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“As far as my parents are concerned I’ve already got an unsuitable boyfriend, that’s the problem.”</i>
</p><p>Athos and Porthos recruit Aramis to be their third at Athos' family dinner. How well it goes depends very much on your viewpoint.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A poly take on [Pretend Couple](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Pretend_Couple).
> 
> This story is dedicated to everyone who couldn't go home for Christmas, or whose orientation or identity isn't accepted by their families. I love you all, whoever you are, and whoever you love.
> 
>  **Content notes** : Low-level homophobia and parental disapproval; recreational drug use.

Athos sighs and clicks the lid of his laptop neatly shut, resisting the temptation to slam it. He glances over at Porthos, who’s knee-deep in Skyrim and hasn’t noticed the expression on his face, though he does reach over to absent-mindedly rub the tops of Athos’ feet with one hand before going back to what looks like a very protracted mammoth-killing.

It’s fine, really. He doesn’t need to make a big deal of this, not when it isn’t anything other than the same old shit that happens every time there’s a de la Fère family event. It’s just... wearying.

Half a minute later Porthos finally kills his mammoth, skins it and then puts the game on pause, already getting up from the sofa. “Cuppa?”

“Please,” Athos replies, following him over to the kitchen area.

Porthos must have heard something in his tone, because he turns around, frowning. “Everything alright?”

“Yes, fine,” Athos replies – which isn’t _technically_ a lie, though he immediately feels a bit bad for not giving a proper answer, and reminds himself that this is Porthos he’s talking to and not his parents, and he doesn’t have to dissemble.

“Well,” he amends, “I just got a reply from my mother.”

“Oh yeah? What’d she say?”

“Very little. Just a date and time, and the name of the restaurant. Which I’m assuming counts as a yes.”

And which is exactly the way it always goes: invitations to family events are addressed to Athos alone, with no mention of Porthos, upon which Athos writes back and insists that they _both_ will gladly attend; and ever since that first Christmas, when he put his foot down and said that it was either both of them or neither, from his parents’ side comes a grudging acceptance that has never once gone so far as to imply that Porthos would actually be welcome in any way.

He always expected it would take them some time to come around to the idea of him and Porthos as a couple – but it’s been _three years_ , for God’s sake. Three years since he told them, anyway; it’s been four years since he and Porthos awkwardly confessed to each other that they might like boys, and followed it up with some tentative adolescent exploration that quickly got away from them both, until they looked up one day and realised they were completely, heart-stoppingly in love.

Yes, Athos has given his parents more than enough time to come around – and he can’t help thinking that now this is just taking the piss.

“I’m sorry you have to keep dealing with this.”

“Hey.” Porthos slings an arm around Athos’ waist, and pulls him close. “I can handle your parents.”

Athos snuggles against him, grateful for Porthos’ endless patience on the matter. “You shouldn’t have to, is my point.”

“Look, they’re your parents and they love you, even if they are a bit misguided.” (Athos privately thinks that it’s more than just a _bit_ misguided, but he nods all the same.) “And if we just stick it out and refuse to rise to it, eventually they’ll cave and start putting my name on the invitations too.”

“I think you’re underestimating their ability to hold a grudge,” Athos comments; but he’s heartened by Porthos’ faith, and manages not to actively worry about the upcoming family dinner for the rest of the evening, just enjoying a cup of tea and watching Porthos manoeuvre his way round some sort of underground cave, systematically picking off what seems like a neverending skeleton army one by one, and letting his own brain switch off.

Of course, it feels like everything Athos has ever worried about comes rushing back as soon as they go to bed; and he lies awake for a long time listening to Porthos’ soft snuffling noises, reaching out a hand and pressing it to the small of his back, trying to draw a little strength from his presence.

If it were only his parents being unreasonable, Athos thinks he could deal with it. He’s had more than enough practice, after all.

No, the real problem is that recently he’s started asking himself whether they’re entirely wrong.

Well. They have an agenda, that much is obvious. All they’ve ever wanted is for him to break up with Porthos and find himself a nice girl; and he knows his parents well enough to know that they’d try any approach that they thought might work.

So he supposes he should have anticipated the fact that sooner or later they’d hit on something that chimes with one of his own insecurities.

He can still hear his father’s voice in his head:

_Things change, son. People change, especially at university. We just don’t want you to settle down too early._

It may only be their first term, but Athos can’t help fearing that he and Porthos have gone and done exactly that. That perhaps they would have been better off in halls after all, rather than being crammed into this slightly dodgy one-bedroom flat that’s just far enough away from campus to be inconvenient, and missing out on all the fun and spontaneity of university life.

Alright, who is he kidding – he’s practically allergic to spontaneity, and he doubts he’d last more than a couple of days living on top of complete strangers. But it would be good to meet some more people, at least, and he’s not including the insufferable arseholes on his course in that. It would be good to have _some_ fun, rather than just spending every moment he’s not on campus either studying his lecture notes or cooking the same three nutritionally-dubious meals for when Porthos gets in, and feeling guilty because Porthos has to work alongside his degree to support himself and Athos doesn’t.

For three years, throughout every tense stand-off and every disapproving look, Athos told himself that once they left home and moved in together, things would be different: that his parents would start to see an adult relationship, instead of teenage rebellion. He’s even started saying ‘partner’ instead of ‘boyfriend’ to ease the transition, though he thinks all that’s actually achieved is to make him feel even more prematurely middle-aged.

That, and the fact that when they finally got their own place and no longer had to sneak around, he was fully expecting to be having a lot more sex.

He does understand, really, why things have been somewhat on the... dry side. They’ve both got demanding studies and Porthos has a job on top of that; and what free evenings they do have, they try and spend out of the house – and though they haven’t made any lasting friends yet, Athos has at least seen some interesting anime and drunk some good wine, and debated whether he wants to try his hand at fencing enough to go on his own, it falling on one of Porthos’ work nights.

And he does think they’ve made the right decision, if they don’t want to become completely isolated. But still. They’ve had sex once this week, such as it was; and while far be it from him to be overly picky, a quarter of an hour getting each other off before bed isn’t exactly the stuff that dreams are made of.

He rolls abruptly over, annoyed by his own self-pity. Life isn’t a romance novel, and this is what he’s chosen for himself: to make a life with his best friend, whom he loves. With all the work, the daily grind and the general minutiae that choice entails.

And the last thing he’s going to do is listen to his damn parents, not when they’ve never even been polite enough to pretend that they don’t think he can do better. As if Porthos’ maleness, his dropped consonants, or even his skin colour (Athos doesn’t know if it’s that, he’s certainly never wanted to ask, but that he can think it of his own parents probably says enough) mean anything at all when compared with his kindness and intelligence, the way he’s quick to smile and wears his heart firmly on his sleeve, the way he started off with so little and has made so much of himself.

No, they just want him to marry one of their friends’ daughters and stop being so _difficult_.

Newly-resolved just to ignore everything his parents say from now on, Athos finally manages to fall asleep; but thoughts of how he might just be failing at university life continue to needle at him all through the next morning, so that he misses half of what’s said in his macroeconomics lecture and nearly steps out into oncoming traffic on his way home for lunch.

When he gets back to the flat, Porthos isn’t there – it’s a lab day, Athos remembers belatedly – and so he makes himself a half-hearted sandwich, wondering for a few moments if this is something they should talk about together, before dismissing the idea just as quickly. None of this is Porthos’ problem after all, neither Athos’ parents’ persistent low-level homophobia or his own... wobble; and he determines just to knuckle down and do something productive to allay his fears, such as finding another society they could try out.

He trudges back to campus for his Francophone Society tutorial – which is thoroughly uninteresting – and then trudges all the way back home again, where he downloads the morning’s lecture notes and has just about started to make some sense of what he missed when he hears the front door to the flat open and close.

“Hey,” he calls out, leaning up for a kiss when he feels Porthos’ hand landing on his shoulder a few moments later. “Good day?”

“Yeah, it was actually,” Porthos replies, shrugging off his coat and draping it over the back of Athos’ chair. “Constance, my lab partner, and I had lunch with a friend of hers. The guy was bizarre, I was telling them all about our family dinner situation, and he said he actually lends himself out as an unsuitable boyfriend to people who want to get their own back on their relatives.”

“As far as my parents are concerned I’ve already got an unsuitable boyfriend, that’s the problem,” Athos remarks; though the idea’s at least amusing.

“Well, he did offer his services to the two of us, if you wanted to pretend you’d taken up polyamory,” Porthos replies cheerfully, pulling up a chair.

Now _that_ gets Athos’ attention. “What, like a triad?”

“Made me laugh, anyway,” Porthos says, and two things immediately become clear: that Porthos isn’t taking it seriously, and that for some reason, Athos is.

He and his parents have been at a stalemate for too long, and perhaps this is the opportunity he needs to shake things up a bit.

The small part of him that’s petty and vindictive can’t help thinking his parents have earned something like this. They’ve spent _three years_ acting as though Porthos is nothing more than an aberration, who should be quietly encouraged away through a campaign of sustained coldness, and perhaps it’s time for Athos to put things in perspective for them. To give them a little shot in the arm. To fight back.

To be his parents’ son, in other words.

When de la Fères are wronged, they don’t scream or shout. They don’t show weakness and expect sympathy for it. But what they do do is take sweet, well-considered revenge.

Athos looks up, and says as casually as he can muster, “So how much is he charging?”

Aramis – that’s his name – isn’t charging anything, Athos learns the following evening, as Porthos reads out to him the reply he’s received to his speculative Facebook message. All he asks is a free meal and the satisfaction of outraging uptight relatives. He’s even been magnanimous enough to offer up his Friday night of, Porthos quotes, “drinking excessively and pulling interesting people” to help them out.

“He says he’s never done a triad before, and he’s quite excited,” Porthos comments, phone in one hand and forkful of spaghetti bolognese in the other. “I thought he was just in it for the amusement value at first, but from this it sounds almost like he thinks he’s performing a public service.”

Athos snorts. “What, liberating people from family oppression? He sounds insufferable.”

Conveniently ignoring the fact that that’s pretty much exactly what he’s asking of Aramis himself.

“He’s not though, is the thing,” Porthos protests – with a conviction that takes Athos a little by surprise. “I defy even you not to like him.”

“Challenge accepted,” Athos murmurs; though truth be told, he’s more curious than anything. It’s been twenty-four hours and he still hasn’t decided that this is the worst idea he’s ever had and he should call it off immediately, which is all the proof he needs that his parents have got to him more than he’d been willing to admit even to himself.

As usual when Athos is being belligerent, Porthos ignores him. “He’s said he’s sorry he hasn’t got time to meet you beforehand. I’m going to email him the basics though, so he at least knows a bit about us. The kind of stuff he’d know if we’d been dating since the start of term.” He takes a mouthful of spaghetti, chewing thoughtfully. “And he asked me what angle we wanted him to take.”

Athos frowns. “Angle?”

“Yeah, so... he’s written a list of suggestions here. Starting arguments about politics, turning up drunk, conspiracy theorist, airhead – pretending he thinks Asia’s a country – that sort of thing. Proposing at the dinner table, though I think even your parents would have a hard time swallowing that.”

“Jesus.” It’s a bewildering array of options by anybody’s standards, and Athos has to take a few moments to think about it. “Do you know, I’m not all that sure it matters. I think they’ll be outraged enough by his mere existence.”

“You’re probably right,” Porthos replies – then pauses with his fork half way to his mouth. “What about Tom?”

 _Shit,_ Athos thinks. He hasn’t thought about Thomas at all.

“We don’t tell him,” he decides. It’s not a hard decision. “Either he’ll think it’s hilarious to mess with our parents, or he’ll think it’s even more hilarious to tell them they were set up and watch the fallout. Either way, I don’t want to let him in on it. He’s too unpredictable.”

Porthos nods his agreement. “Makes sense. He’s on no side but his own, Tom is.” He finishes the last of his spaghetti, and puts his cutlery down. “I’ll tell Aramis to keep it subtle, then? Nothing outrageous?”

“Nothing outrageous,” Athos agrees. “But if he can convince my parents that he’s nice and well-mannered but really rather odd, then that’d be perfect. Oh, and make sure he wears a suit.”

For the rest of the week Athos stubbornly refuses to think about the magnitude of what he’s agreed to and its probable consequences, feeling the worry steadily building in the back of his mind until he gets home on Friday after his two o’clock lecture and finds himself wondering anxiously if he should just shower and get changed straight away, unable to bear the idea of sitting still for another hour, and wondering what he can do to take the edge off.

 _I’ll have a drink,_ he decides. _Just the one, to calm myself down._

_But when is ‘one drink’ ever just one?_

He walks over to the kitchen area and stares at the bottle of red by the toaster, as if its label will hold all the answers. While he can’t afford to get drunk, he’s not sure he can bear to stay sober either.

Then he hits on the perfect solution.

First, he pours himself a _very_ full glass of wine. Next, he locks the rest of the bottle in the meter cupboard – and finally he opens the window and leans out to drop the key for that cupboard into the flowerbed below, secure in the knowledge that his laziness is the only force more powerful than his lack of self-control.

When Porthos gets home an hour later, he’s sitting slumped against the kitchen table with his head propped on his forearms, staring at the remaining drop of wine that’s pooled in the bottom of his glass.

“Please tell me I’m not making the biggest mistake of my life,” he calls out as he hears the door shut, rolling his head to one side so that Porthos can lean over and kiss him on the lips.

“To be honest? I dunno. But you know I’m on your team all the way,” Porthos replies, unzipping his coat. “It’s your family, your decision – and if you want to call it off, just say the word and I’ll give Aramis a ring.”

Athos pushes himself up to a sitting position, powering through the sluggishness in his limbs. “And we’ll go to the restaurant just the two of us, and we’ll have the exact same experience that we’ve had for the past three years, ranging between tedious and infuriating. No, I don’t think so.”

It takes having the option put in front of him to realise he’s not prepared to stand for it any longer.

“I’m sick of just sitting there and letting them imply you’re not good enough for me,” he says, reaching out to pull Porthos close. “And I’m not going to take it lying down any more. It’s time to hit back.”

Porthos leans over for a kiss. “As long as you’re not doing this just for my sake. I mean, I’ve dealt with far worse.”

“I’m doing this because they’ve earned it,” Athos replies. “I’ve given them more than enough time to come around, and they haven’t. They’ve brought it entirely on themselves.”

“Attaboy,” Porthos grins broadly, bopping Athos on the nose with his forefinger. “I can’t say I’m not looking forward to putting the wind up them.”

“Oh, it’ll do that alright,” Athos murmurs, revelling for a moment in the warmth and strength of Porthos’ arms before he breaks away, and gets to his feet. “Right. Let’s start getting ready.”

It’s still a bit too early, but Porthos doesn’t call Athos on it, at least, just lets him take his time showering and dressing, and keeps a close eye on him for any signs of further nerves that need soothing. And Athos, for his part, manages to ignore all the unease churning over and over in his gut as long as he still has something else to focus on; but by the time they’re sitting together on the top deck of the bus into town, their hands joined on Athos’ knee, he can’t help thinking that there’s no way in hell they’re ever going to get away with this.

He’s never even _met_ Aramis, for starters; and though he supposes it’s possible that the man’s just as universally personable as Porthos claims, that’s no indication at all that he’s going to be any good at what they’re asking of him.

He supposes that what it boils down to is, how do you pretend to be in love with someone you’ve never met?

Athos is still pondering the question as they get off the bus in the centre of town and walk down to the riverside. It’s cold out, and the streets are full of the kind of people who look like they went for one Friday after-work drink and had a few too many, laughing raucously and even shouting to each other across the square.

An older woman gives them a particularly dirty look as they walk past, and Athos is at a complete loss for a moment before he realises he’s still holding Porthos’ hand. They’re never normally so demonstrative in public, and the power of her censure almost makes him pull away before his anger kicks in, and he glares right back.

 _Fuck you, you old bigot_ , he thinks nastily, half-tempted to give her the finger even though he knows it to be both petty and futile.

Fuck his parents too, and fuck anyone else who has a problem with the fact that he loves Porthos, and that Porthos loves him.

He feels a squeeze of his hand, and looks over to where Porthos is smiling at him a little sadly, as if to apologise for the fact that there are people in this world who hate them, and it tugs at something in Athos’ heart.

This is why he’s doing this, isn’t it? For Porthos. Not for his own petty satisfaction, but to convince his parents that Porthos is the family he’s chosen, and that they need to start accepting him.

He tightens his grip on Porthos’ fingers as they walk into the restaurant, just in case he’s thinking of pulling away, and keeps their hands firmly joined as the waiter leads them over to where his parents and Tom are sitting and waiting, drinks already in front of them even though Athos knows for a fact that they’re on time almost to the minute.

As they take their seats after the obligatory round of handshakes and kisses on the cheek for his mother, Athos realises that they’re sitting with their backs to the door, so he and Porthos won’t even be able to see Aramis when he comes in. Not that he even knows what Aramis looks like – but he can’t afford to start worrying about the ten or twenty things that he should have asked Porthos about and didn’t, not when he needs his wits about him.

Aramis is a little late, which Athos fully hopes is deliberate, and he drags out the initial enquiries about everybody’s health (reasonable, though he hears more about his father’s blood pressure than he really cares to) and his family’s journey into town (the traffic’s horrendous on a Friday at rush hour, quel fucking surprise); and their waiter’s just appeared at his elbow to take their drinks order when he hears an enthusiastic voice saying just a little too loud, “Porthos! Athos! There you are!”

It’s his cue: Athos turns to the waiter, saying apologetically, “I’m afraid we’re going to have to get an extra place made up.”

His mother frowns, her expression a perfect study in distaste. “I beg your pardon, Athos?”

“Sorry I’m late!” says the voice, now coming from somewhere behind Porthos’ left shoulder – and Athos turns to see a man his age standing there in what he’d swear is a purple suit, crisp white shirt open at the neck – no tie, that will annoy his parents – and no, it _is_ purple, he realises, as Aramis puts a proprietary hand on Porthos’ shoulder, leans in and kisses him full on the mouth.

Athos happens to know that he’s the only other person who’s ever kissed those lips; and he isn’t sure what to feel for a moment, everything that’s churning inside him far too complicated to untangle – and what comes to the fore is the sudden realisation that there are two other men in the right age bracket sitting at this table, and does Aramis actually know which one of them is him and which one’s Thomas?

When Aramis moves over to kiss Athos on the mouth as well, Athos forgets to feel anything other than thankful that he didn’t try and kiss his brother.

Thomas says, clearly and distinctly, “What the fuck?”

It appears Athos has horrified both of his parents so thoroughly that nobody even remembers to scold Thomas for his bad language.

“I’m Aramis,” Aramis announces, as if he fully expects everyone to have heard of him, as the waiter brings over a chair, a fresh set of cutlery and a wine glass, and Aramis is squeezed in between Athos and Thomas.

Athos finds himself wondering just how much the waiter has taken in, and doubts that his parents will ever feel able to show their faces here again.

The way Aramis smiles around the table is sympathetic, as though if their roles were reversed, he’d be staring at himself with just as much shock as Athos’ parents are staring at him right now. “And you must be Mr and Mrs de la Fère, and Thomas? It’s so good to meet you all at last.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Athos says into the resounding silence that follows.

He’s inexpressibly relieved to find that now they’re actually doing this, he isn’t paralysed by regret. And while it may just be the strange freedom of having it out of his hands, he decides that whatever the cause, he’s glad to find that in looking at the twin expressions of horror on his parents’ faces (and the amused incredulity on Tom’s) that he feels only a quiet, vindictive satisfaction.

A son with one boyfriend, while far from ideal, is after all exponentially easier to explain to the neighbours than a son with _two_ boyfriends.

“Athos,” his mother says carefully, as if she’s offering him a final chance to disprove everything her instincts are telling her, “who is this gentleman?”

Just as Athos is trying to figure out how to explain that sometimes two men love a third man very much, Porthos speaks up.

“This is Aramis,” he repeats, as if Aramis’ presence here is entirely self-evident; and Athos’ mouth snaps shut as he belatedly realises just what Porthos is doing. “We met in fresher’s week, and I guess you could say the three of us hit it off.”

Porthos is grinning – _he’s enjoying this_ , Athos realises, with a rapidly sinking feeling. Keeping a straight face when something amuses him has never been one of Porthos’ fortes, and if his parents realise that they’re being messed with then it’s game over.

Athos pokes him hard in the thigh under the table.

“You could say that, yes,” Aramis picks up, his barely-concealed amusement matching Porthos’; there’s some funny story here that they don’t want to tell his parents, then, and should he be looking amused as well...?

It’s at that moment he feels a hand landing on his right knee, creeping boldly up to caress the sensitive skin of his inner thigh.

Porthos is sitting to his left.

Athos feels himself turning an appalling shade of red as he surreptitiously sneaks his hand under the table, picks Aramis’ hand up by the shirt cuff and drops it in mid-air, somewhere away from his leg.

He’s pretty sure that _groping_ was never part of the job description.

It’s only then that he realises the entire table is looking at him expectantly; and wonders what the hell he missed.

“Quite,” he manages, hoping it fits with whatever was just said; and then, with the air of a man desperate to move the conversation forward to slightly more navigable ground, “Aramis is a theologian.”

“Oh? That sounds fascinating,” Athos’ father replies immediately, his gratitude plain on his face. “Why theology?”

“Well, though I’ve always been fascinated by the way differing beliefs have shaped human history, I suppose it was ultimately for personal reasons,” Aramis explains, with a charming smile, and all his attention focused on Athos’ father. “I’ve always felt torn between two religious traditions myself, although Catholicism and white witchcraft have a surprisingly large amount in common, if you know where to look.”

Aramis grins bashfully. Athos can’t help the way his eyes flick to his mother, who’s sitting statue-still, not once looking up from her menu.

“How is _witchcraft_ a religion?” Thomas drawls, in the same tone that he might say Scientology, or My Little Pony.

“Well, modern witchcraft is only loosely based on the Old Ways, if I’m honest. It’s mostly a celebration of the inherent divinity in nature,” Aramis replies quite cordially, as if he isn’t aware of the mockery in Thomas’ tone at all. “It’s a strange combination, but I’m afraid they’re both in the blood. Catholicism from my mother... and Wicca from my other mother.”

Athos finds himself wondering if the waiters at this restaurant have a sixth sense for knowing when exactly to appear at a table, interrupting the scandalised silence by requesting their orders for drinks and starters; and he picks something from the menu at random without really reading it, a little voice in his mind chanting _lesbian parents, lesbian parents._

When Aramis orders a Coke – the very thing Athos remembers warning Porthos early in their relationship never, _ever_ to do when at a restaurant with his parents – he starts to realise that he’s in the presence of a master.

He longs to look at Porthos, to raise an eyebrow and say with it _good call, telling him that_ , but he knows it will have to wait. They can’t afford to ruin this by giving themselves away, not when it’s going so well.

No, he just has to look at Aramis as adoringly as he can manage – or interested, rather, that’s at least achievable – and try not to think too hard about anything he’s saying.

Things quickly get better, or worse, depending on one’s viewpoint. As Athos mechanically chews and swallows mouthfuls of country terrine, refusing to even look in Porthos’ direction in case he sets him off, Aramis tells Athos’ appalled parents the actually rather sweet story of how “Mum and _Mam_ _á_ ” met at a CND rally, though once he gaily recounts Uncle Graham’s role as sperm donor it completely undoes any good work his engaging narration might have done.

“So how’s the course, son?” Athos’ father asks somewhat desperately, the moment Aramis finishes his story and picks up his fork, spearing what looks to Athos like a scallop with just a little too much relish.

When he dares to glance at his mother, he sees her face is frozen in a perfectly polite smile that Athos knows from long experience means she’s extremely angry indeed.

Thomas looks as though he’s actively working not to burst out laughing, and Athos hopes to God for a moment that Porthos hasn’t looked at him either, though he doesn’t dare check.

Just before he launches into an extremely boring and long-winded answer about French economic policy, which he expects his parents to positively lap up given the circumstances, Athos idly considers saying that he’s thinking of giving it all up to become a tattoo artist, or perhaps a nude model.

As main courses are ordered and then awaited, Athos starts to notice several undercurrents developing. His parents seem to be doing everything they can to direct the flow of conversation away from Aramis, even going so far as to pose several questions to Porthos, which is pretty much unprecedented, asking him whether he’s enjoying biology and how his foster mother is – “still religious,” Porthos replies, seemingly answering every question as briefly as is possible without being rude. Whereupon Thomas is obviously having a great deal of fun diverting the conversation straight back to Aramis, with a perfectly genuine-seeming interest and attentiveness that would probably convince anyone who isn’t Athos.

Though given how admirably Aramis has risen to the challenge so far, he’s probably got Thomas’ number as well.

As Aramis is holding court with a story about his _mam_ _á_ taking him to Spain as a young baby and ‘hilariously’ losing him at a remote village in the mountains, where he may or may not have been switched with a different child entirely, they just don’t know, Athos dares to sneak a proper look at him for the first time. He’s been so busy playing the part of the almost-model son that he hasn’t thought to do it before now, and he realises with some surprise that he thinks Aramis is rather good-looking. He generally doesn’t notice if people are attractive, being as he is happy with Porthos, but he supposes that between his engaging manner and his classic good looks, Aramis’ attractiveness is universal enough to be obvious to even him. The purple suit and white shirt he’s wearing suit his colouring well – though Athos notes that his ironing job is absolutely shocking, if he’s even bothered – and there’s a slim silver chain at his throat that his parents will no doubt disapprove of.

And when he turns to Athos with the kind of smile that Athos has only ever seen directed at him from Porthos, and lays a proprietary hand on his wrist while recounting something genuinely quite funny that Athos allegedly said in response to this story the first time round – well, Athos nearly passes out from shock when he realises that Aramis has a _nose ring_ , which should be ridiculous and yet only seems to make him even more attractive, and has to take a big gulp of wine to hide his confusion.

When his main course arrives thirty seconds later, it’s as much a relief for Athos as he imagines it is for his parents.

Of course, he only gets half way through his duck before Aramis’ phone goes off – Athos recognises his ringtone as the intro to _Bad Romance_ and nearly chokes – and he murmurs an embarrassed, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” as he cancels the call.

Athos’ mother’s icily polite smile cranks itself up another notch.

Once everyone’s cleared their plates, Athos’ father breaks the by-now-inevitable awkward silence by engaging Porthos extremely enthusiastically in a conversation about cricket – in which Porthos valiantly holds his own, despite the fact that Athos knows for a fact he barely knows a wicket from an over – which leaves Athos himself listening to his mother tell Aramis about Thomas’ A-Level choices, in exhaustive detail. She’s barely spoken up till now, but has apparently decided that talking to Aramis is considerably preferable to letting him talk; and for a few minutes Aramis plays along admirably, making noises of interest in all the right places, until she announces Thomas’ intention to go into politics (firmly ignoring Thomas’ mumbled “Well, maybe”).

“Oh wow, that’s so impressive,” Aramis replies with just a bit too much awe, as if he’s been told that Thomas is some sort of remarkable child prodigy. “I don’t think I could do that myself – I mean, I couldn’t bear to operate from inside such a broken system.”

Aramis’ timing is perfect, his last words hitting just as Porthos and Athos’ father fall silent, having reached a lull in their cricket conversation; and Athos watches and waits for the fallout, knowing all too well that his family are exactly the kind of people the current political system’s geared to protect, and wondering who will bite first.

In the end it’s his father, either out of naïveté or the feeling that the silence has gone on slightly too long to be polite, who asks, “What do you mean, ‘broken’?”

Athos does a quick mental round-up: his parents are staunch Conservative voters. Thomas is on the school debate team. Porthos is unassuming, but a committed Labour supporter if pressed.

He holds his breath.

“Well, everything’s the same story these days, isn’t it?” Aramis replies, seeming genuinely saddened. “All the mainstream political parties are pushing the same model of neoliberal capitalism, promoting the interests of corporations and institutions. What about people? Human compassion?”

Aramis clearly isn’t stupid; in fact, he’s probably far cleverer than he’s making himself sound. He’s picked an argument which will go down like a lead balloon with Athos’ family, but phrased it in such a way as to make it very difficult to argue against.

It’s Thomas who asks slyly, “Well, what would you do differently, then?”

“Oh, if I’m honest, I wouldn’t know where to start,” Aramis replies, with a ‘silly me’ smile. “It’s all so upsetting.” He sighs, apparently taking Athos’ parents’ stony silence as agreement. “I’m voting Green of course, but I don’t hold out much hope.”

Their waiter turns up at that moment, to collect the plates and deliver the dessert menus; and while everyone’s scanning intently through the six choices over and over as an excuse not to speak to each other, Porthos’ hand reaches out and squeezes Athos’, just for a moment, where it’s laid flat on the table.

Athos turns his hand over and squeezes back, trying to silently transmit _I’m alright, I’m just_ _avoiding_ _looking at you so you don’t start laughing._

He’s very, _very_ surprised when his mother lets his father order a bottle of dessert wine without making a snide comment about his drinking.

Of course, he has less than a minute of thinking he’s beaten her into submission before she hits back, saying unusually pointedly for someone who’s normally more subtle, “I had lunch with Mrs Hardiman yesterday, Athos. Apparently Susie’s broken up with her boyfriend.”

Athos resists the temptation to visibly roll his eyes. He wouldn’t have thought his parents were rude enough to hint in front of Porthos that he should be dating one of their friends’ daughters instead – but apparently this is what happens when he rattles their cages.

Out loud, he says, in a perfectly-judged tone that’s just shy of sincere, “Oh, that’s such a pity. I really thought they were very well-suited for each other.”

“Well, you never can tell,” Aramis chips in, as if Athos’ mother had been addressing him. “I always thought Marita – my sister, she’s the one who’s an interpretive dancer – and her last boyfriend were perfect for each other. They always agreed, they never argued. One day, the police turned up at her door. Seems he was actually a professional con artist. No wonder he always said the right thing.” Aramis shakes his head philosophically. “I told her not to date a Virgo, but some people just have to learn the hard way.”

Athos can’t help it, he’s glancing at Porthos before he even realises he’s doing it.

Porthos is just about not laughing, at least, but his expression is just as disbelieving as Athos imagines his own to be.

When he looks back it’s to see that Thomas has caught their exchange; and the way he’s smirking at Athos says _you’re going to be in so much trouble for this, and I’m going to enjoy every second of it._

But Athos just raises an eyebrow, allowing his lip to curl – because clearly Thomas has forgotten that he’s got out.

He’s no longer dependent on his parents, financially or otherwise, and he’s worked very hard to make sure that’s the case. He has his own flat and his own savings account, and Porthos to reassure him when he doubts, and to remind him he’s doing the right thing. He’s willing to play nicely with his parents if they’re willing to play nicely with him, but he’s not a child any more, and he thinks they know as well as he does that they no longer have a hold over him.

Well. Except for the inconvenient matter of filial duty.

Of love, even, the bonds of which may be strained, but aren’t yet broken.

If his parents are willing to love him for who he is and not who they’d like him to be, then he will return that love gladly.

If not then he’d rather just know, so that he can harden his heart, and get on with his own life accordingly.

His thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of dessert, where he discovers that the three of them have chosen the same appallingly decadent-looking chocolate soufflé; and Athos takes his first bite with half an eye on Aramis, ostensibly to make sure he doesn’t say or do anything else that’s stretching credibility.

This proves to be a terrible mistake when Aramis, upon tasting his own soufflé for the first time, lets out what must be the filthiest moan that Athos has ever heard in his life.

In fact, it’s pretty much the same moan he hears from Porthos in their most intimate moments; and for an unguarded moment Athos looks at Aramis with completely new eyes, imagines kissing the curve of his smile and along the olive skin disappearing down into his collar, and wonders whether Aramis would make the same noise under Athos’ hands.

“Mm, that’s delicious,” Aramis enthuses – snapping Athos out of his reverie. “Do you know, I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

And just when Athos thinks things can’t possibly get any worse, two more things follow on, in quick succession.

First, Aramis’ tongue comes out to lick up a stray bit of chocolate sauce from the corner of his mouth, which Athos quickly decides is the most obscene thing he’s ever seen.

Then as he recovers himself enough to look away, cheeks heating, he wishes for the ground to swallow him up anew when he sees Thomas staring at him in blank shock, having presumably caught every single lustful glance that’s just played across his face.

 _Well, at least I’ve sold it,_ Athos thinks, though he’s not completely sure it was worth the price.

His family have never been one to linger over their meals, but even so, desserts are finished and the bill paid remarkably quickly without anyone even suggesting coffee, their waiter probably sensing that everyone at the table is dying to get away as soon as possible. Athos’ mother is the first to stand, saying it was a lovely evening but of course they must get back, and everyone has their coats on and is out of the door in less than two minutes for the requisite round of handshakes and kisses, before walking quickly away in opposite directions.

Porthos takes Athos’ hand as they walk off towards the bus stop, and out of the corner of his eye Athos can see that Aramis is holding Porthos’ other hand on the far side, presumably for the benefit of anyone who should turn round and look back at them.

It’s barely five minutes before Athos’ phone beeps.

It’s Thomas, of course.

“Mum and Dad spitting feathers. Best family dinner ever. Please thank your ménage à trois for me,” Athos reads aloud, in the driest voice he can muster, trying to disguise the unease that’s still squatting in his stomach.

“Well, I’d call that a resounding success,” Aramis quips, leaning around Porthos. He’s hunkered down in a massive scarf that comes all the way up to his chin, hands buried deep in his pockets. “Can I interest you both in a post-dinner drink and evaluation? The night is still young.”

Athos finds himself agreeing immediately, the last thing he wants being to go home and think about what he’s done; and they duck into the first pub they come to, which is decent-looking yet completely packed, and squash themselves into a corner of the bar next to the wall.

He hopes that Aramis and Porthos can carry the conversation between themselves for a bit, and allow him some time to sort his head out; but they’ve barely got their drinks in when they both turn to him expectantly, Porthos the first one to ask, “Well, how do you think it went?”

“Well, I believe they all bought it. So in that sense it was a success,” Athos replies, non-committally – and while Aramis immediately grins, Porthos frowns.

“But you’re not happy,” he replies.

It’s clearly not a question.

Athos doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to say, when he’s barely had a moment to decompress; but fortunately Aramis saves him. “Oh, is it because I put my hand on your leg?” he asks contritely, not waiting for an answer, “I’m so sorry, I really don’t think sometimes. I just wanted you to look embarrassed, and it was the first thing I thought of.”

“No, it’s alright,” Athos replies awkwardly, with one wary eye on Porthos – who to his relief seems mostly amused by Aramis’ liberties, rather than annoyed. “It had that effect, certainly. You were – very impressive. The whole evening was very well-judged.”

“Totally. I couldn’t believe their faces,” Porthos grins, clapping Aramis on the arm. “But now you’ve gone and made me curious. Who’s the real Aramis, and what was just for show?”

“Ah,” Aramis smiles slyly, prolonging the moment by taking a considering sip of his cider. “Do not ask the magician to reveal his secrets.”

“What about over dinner?”

Aramis blinks at Porthos in shock – apparently just as surprised as Athos is.

From anyone other than Porthos, Athos would think he was looking at a come-on.

“I mean,” Porthos clarifies hastily, “come over to ours for dinner. As thanks for making this the most entertaining dinner with the in-laws I’ve ever had to sit through.”

Aramis looks uncertainly to Athos; but now that it’s been proposed, Athos finds himself wanting nothing more. “Yes, absolutely! Perhaps one evening next week. I’ll cook something.”

“Well,” Aramis smiles, looking between them in turn, “while you absolutely don’t need to do anything to thank me, I’d love to come, purely for the pleasure of your company.”

 _The pleasure will be all ours_ , Athos thinks, before he can stop himself.

They arrange for Aramis to come over next Tuesday and all exchange phone numbers, before finishing their drinks and then taking the bus back in the direction of campus together; and when Aramis gets off a stop earlier, kissing them both on the cheek before disappearing into the night, Athos simply can’t help his own wistfulness at Aramis’ departure.

He’s just drunk and getting maudlin, he tells himself firmly – it’s been a ridiculously tense evening by anyone’s standards, and it makes total sense that there should be a comedown.

He takes Porthos’ hand again as they walk home from the bus stop together, neither of them saying anything much.

But when he finds himself still thinking about Aramis at random moments over the days that follow, Athos is forced to admit that he’s got something of a problem.

At first, he tries valiantly to kid himself that Aramis is just important to him because he could be their first real friend; but what persists is the memory of the way Aramis looks at him at dinner that night, so fond and familiar, as if they truly were in love.

_This is ridiculous. Put it out of your head._

For a start, Aramis was _acting_ , which is exactly what Athos asked him there to do.

And surely Athos himself isn’t nearly so clueless about the ways of romance that to have someone look at him like that, the way only Porthos has ever looked at him, would be enough to send him immediately tumbling head over heels.

And even if it were, Athos is already in love with Porthos. They’re happy together. And while Aramis may be handsome and charming, Athos barely even knows him; and there’s no way he’s going to ruin his relationship with the love of his life by mooning over anyone who’s halfway nice to him.

No, they’re going to have Aramis over for dinner, get to know him, and hopefully make a friend.

And that’s all.


	2. Chapter 2

Athos can’t wait for the day to come – right up until it does, at which point he decides it’s far too soon and he isn’t remotely ready.

He said he’d _cook_ , for Christ’s sake. He can’t cook a thing, and he can’t ask Porthos, not when it’s the only evening this week he’s not working; and in the end he finally decides about two hours beforehand just to get some pizzas and bung them in the oven, because everyone likes pizza, and then stands in front of his wardrobe for a full fifteen minutes picking out different clothing combinations and then putting them back again unsatisfied, telling him that this is their first guest and he just wants to look like he’s made a bit of an effort, as if wishing could make it so.

It’s just as he’s showered and dressed and finally starting to relax a little, sprawled on the sofa with a glass of wine waiting for Porthos to get in, that he gets the email.

It’s from his mother, of course.

_Dear Athos,_

_Your father and I have tried to be as tolerant as we can of your lifestyle choices, however the events of last week were simply unacceptable._

_We trust that you will reflect on the choices you have made and how detrimental continuing in this vein would be to your life and your future, as well as to your family relationships._

_We are confident you will see the wisdom of our position, and we will welcome you and Porthos for Christmas, as we did last year._

He has to read the email through three times before setting his phone heavily down on the sofa beside him, genuinely surprised by just how much it _hurts_.

He hates the way his parents always know exactly how to get under his skin; that however much of an adult he becomes, just the right comment or disapproving look can cut through to the heart of him, making him feel like nothing more than a naughty little boy again.

He isn’t sure how long he spends just staring into space before he hears Porthos coming through the door, the click of the latch and an exhale of breath, the sound of hands being rubbed together to get some warmth back into the fingers.

Though Athos normally tries to put on a brave face for Porthos’ sake, he can’t quite bring himself to do it this time.

“Hey, what is it?” Porthos asks when his own cheerful greeting’s returned decidedly unenthusiastically, sitting down next to Athos on the sofa and putting a careful arm around his shoulders; and in lieu of an answer Athos unlocks his phone and holds it out for Porthos to read the screen.

He stares at it for a couple of seconds, face turning to thunder, before blinking the expression away and pulling Athos close. “Oh Jesus, babe. I’m so sorry.”

“The funny thing is, I got what I wanted,” Athos remarks; though by _funny_ he really means _probably ironic and surprisingly painful._ “‘We will welcome you and Porthos for Christmas’. Your own personal invitation. I should be happy.”

“Of course you shouldn’t, you idiot,” Porthos replies unflinchingly, his grip tightening on Athos’ shoulder. “Your parents just came right out and told you they’re disappointed in you, when we both know they’ve been thinking it for years already. Of course you’re going to be upset.”

Athos nods, resigned to it all too quickly. Not that he’d ever really expected anything else.

“I don’t know what to reply. Even though it wasn’t real – I don’t want to cave and let them think they’ve won. That they can just tell me who I can and can’t love and have me fall back in line.” He sighs, one finger tracing circles around Porthos’ knee. “But then if we _don’t_ go, I can’t help thinking that’ll only make things worse.”

He’s not ready to let go. Not strong enough, much as he’d like to be; at least not yet. He’s still that scared little boy inside that’s desperate for his parents’ approval, so hard-won and so easily snatched away.

“And at least your parents acknowledge us,” Porthos replies, voice dark – and Athos knows he’s thinking of Amelia. How on their first and only meeting, Athos’ presence had upset her so much that he found himself making his excuses after less than an hour. “But we can always have Christmas here if you want, just the two of us. We’ll get a fake tree and some awful oven-ready Christmas dinners, and get pissed watching _The Snowman_.”

“That sounds charming,” Athos comments dryly, but his spirits are buoyed a little despite himself.

Whatever else happens, he’s always got Porthos; and home will be wherever they are together.

It takes him by complete surprise when Porthos suddenly says, “Maybe ask Aramis what he thinks?”

At Athos’ no doubt blank expression, he shrugs self-effacingly. “Well, he’s an expert on disappointed parents, he said so himself. And he’s poly. He might have a different perspective.”

“He’s what? Actually?”

Athos doesn’t know why he’s surprised. It’s not like Porthos has just announced that Aramis is a circus performer or something.

“Yeah, he was telling me all about it. We’ve been chatting a bit on Facebook.” Porthos pauses, suddenly clearly nervous. “You don’t mind, right?”

Athos wonders what the hell kind of expression must be on his face, to make Porthos so worried about his reaction. “No, of course not!” he exclaims, just a little too quickly. “You absolutely don’t need my permission to have friends.”

“Well, it was more that I was worrying you’d feel left out,” Porthos clarifies, making Athos feel even worse – both silly for jumping to conclusions, and guilty for being, well, _jealous_. “I know you haven’t met a lot of people yourself yet. And talking of – if you do want to get out of the house and socialise more then you absolutely should. Don’t hold back on my account just because I’ve got to work.”

“No, absolutely – but to tell you the truth? I’m not falling over myself to expand my social life, at least not alone,” Athos admits, leaning more heavily against Porthos’ shoulder. “I mean, I don’t want us to miss out on things, but... I don’t know where to start with most people. I much prefer it if you’re there too.”

While he does think they _should_ have other friends, he’s starting to wonder for whose sake he thinks that. For Porthos’ sake, definitely; but for his own, would he mind if it were truly just the two of them, or is it just another thing he’s been conditioned to think he wants?

It’s certainly a lot easier, and safer, not to put yourself out there.

“Fair enough, but as long as you’re not just doing things because you think I want them,” Porthos replies, cutting right to the heart of Athos’ worries as he so often does; but he doesn’t press the point, just pulls Athos closer into his embrace as they both fall silent, Athos closing his eyes and enjoying just how _right_ it always feels in Porthos’ arms.

When the doorbell rings, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“You get the door. I’ll put the oven on.”

He all but bounds up off the sofa – and Porthos moves with him, holding him fast and not letting him pull away. “Breathe,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to Athos’ forehead, before letting him go. “It’s gonna be fun.”

 _That’s not what I’m worried about_ , Athos thinks, deliberately taking his time double-checking the oven temperature, rooting around in the cupboard for the elusive third wine glass – which is covered in dust and needs rinsing – as he hears the flat door open and close, and turns around to see Aramis handing Porthos his coat and the same giant scarf Athos remembers from the other evening as he says, “It’s always pretty funny just how much they don’t know what to do with me.”

Porthos comes over to put Aramis’ coat over his own on the kitchen chair – they really do need to get a coat hook, Athos reminds himself, this is just embarrassing – and smiles approvingly when he sees the glass in Athos’ hand. “You’re sorting the wine?”

“I am. Aramis,” Athos greets him neutrally, a careful nod of the head that probably does everything to betray his awkwardness.

He certainly isn’t expecting Aramis to come over and kiss him on the cheek, exclaiming, “Hey, it’s great to see you again! Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“The pleasure’s all ours,” Athos replies awkwardly, “especially as I expect you’ll find us rather sedate.”

He was only trying to be polite – so he’s surprised when Aramis appears to take him at his word, shaking his head seriously. “Oh, you definitely don’t give yourself enough credit. I expect to have a brilliant time –” he grins – “especially with the kind of people who’ll invite a third to a family dinner to upset their parents.”

He knows Aramis doesn’t mean anything bad by it, but in light of the email Athos has just received, the comment leaves a nasty taste in his mouth; and when neither he nor Porthos say anything in reply Aramis looks between the two of them, his smile wilting. “Have I put my foot in it?”

In reply Athos takes himself and the spare wine glass over to the sofa, gesturing for the other two to follow him. “I got this this afternoon,” he says, handing his phone over for Aramis to read the email while he sees to the drinks. “Technically, it was a success. I got what I wanted.”

“And I already told him he’s being an idiot,” Porthos chides, hand squeezing Athos’ shoulder.

Aramis puts the phone down on the coffee table. “I’m with Porthos on this one, I’m afraid.” He turns to Athos, face full of sympathy. “I’m so sorry.”

“But it’s not even _real_ ,” Athos argues, “I shouldn’t be upset. They just have this way of getting to me that – ugh.”

“Hey, listen up,” Aramis stresses, surprising Athos by putting a hand on his forearm and squeezing, before reaching for his wine glass. “‘Real’ or not, your parents are still telling you there are forms of love they won’t accept. That if you did fall for more than one person, they wouldn’t support you. I can only imagine how much that hurts. God knows the idea of it terrified me.”

Stricken for a moment, Athos reaches for his glass and takes a long drink, while he tries to figure out what to say.

He still finds it difficult to talk to _Porthos_ about how he feels, for God’s sake, and now for Aramis to come in here and lay his deepest insecurities bare – he doesn’t think he’d ever be ready for it.

“Athos said to me earlier that he didn’t know how to reply,” Porthos picks up, after it’s clear he’s at a loss himself. “If we tell them the two of us are coming for Christmas – even though we don’t actually have a third – it’s like we let them win.”

“But otherwise you don’t get to go home for Christmas,” Aramis finishes for him. “Do you both go to Athos’ parents every year?”

“We have done since we got together,” Athos replies. “I’m expected to be there, and – they tried to pull something similar with Porthos the first year, but when I put my foot down and said I would be wherever he was and they could decide if that was with them or not, he’s been grudgingly welcome ever since.”

“And then I go and visit my foster mother on Boxing Day. She’s – well. I tried to tell her about Athos and she said that I was confused and that I shouldn’t let anyone lead me into sin. She asks me every year if I’ve met a nice girl yet.” Porthos shrugs at Aramis’ obvious wince. “It’s not so bad – I mean, I only lived with her from when I was ten till sixteen, it’s not like she’s my mum – but I feel like I can’t really have a relationship with her, you know? Not when she doesn’t want to know who I am.”

“Absolutely. And the more I hear about other people’s parents the more I appreciate my own,” Aramis replies, with feeling. “They’re products of the free love era. Heterosexual ones, but still. They even got a bit excited about me being poly.”

Athos clears his throat. “You’re – out, then?”

“Yeah. Couple of weeks ago, actually. I had a difficult sixth form, and – they said they were just glad I’d found what would make me happy. My mum cried a bit.” Aramis smiles, and there’s something soft and sincere about it that touches Athos’ heart in a way he feels ill-prepared for. “I’m single right now, but if I wanted to bring someone, or more than one someone, I think they’d be okay with it.”

They’ve all fallen silent when the oven beeps, and Athos gets up to put the pizzas in, spending a moment looking at the little vase of wooden tulips Porthos bought for the kitchen window, and taking a quiet breath.

He doesn’t know what he was worrying about. It’s easy to be with Aramis: he’s easy to talk to, more so than anyone Athos has ever met, and all he has to do is let things flow and not worry about the fact that he shouldn’t be thinking Aramis is attractive, just allow himself to appreciate the view without getting lost inside his own head.

When he sits back down, Porthos is just asking, with an interest Athos didn’t want to show himself, “So you’ve not got two mothers, then?”

“No, I’m afraid that was just for shock value,” Aramis’ grin is wicked. “Mother and a father, and two sisters. The lapsed Catholicism’s theirs, and the New Age dabbling is all mine. Even though I feel my religion right down to my bones, there’s so much toxic shit that comes with it, you know? And most of it’s about sexuality. I just needed something to balance that, something less negative. Which is a bit of modern paganism, as it turns out. Though this must all sound very weird.” He smiles, a little uncertainly.

“Oh, not at all,” Athos replies – surprised by how much he wants to reassure, when it’s not like he’s ever given a shit about religion before now. “While I’m very much the ‘I’ll believe it when I see it’ type, I imagine there’s a lot of value to be had in believing in something.”

After all, why _couldn’t_ there be, if it’s used for personal comfort and enrichment, and not for the repression of others?

“There is, actually, yeah. Though I do draw the line at astrology. For any serious purposes, anyway. That part was also to upset your parents,” Aramis says, with relish.

“Do you enjoy it?” Athos asks.

He immediately thinks better of it, of course; and has his mouth open to apologise for being so appallingly rude when Aramis says quite seriously, “Not _upsetting_ people, no – that’s not a good choice of words on my part. But I do think people sometimes need to be shocked out of their complacency. So I’d say I enjoy _outraging_ people, when I think their behaviour warrants it. Discrimination hurts me, and I’m happy to hurt right back.”

Athos isn’t quite sure what he thinks for a moment – it runs completely contrary to everything he’s ever been taught about politeness and making the right noises, not making a fuss – but Porthos is nodding, the hardness in his expression taking Athos completely by surprise. “Yeah, exactly. You can’t just pretend to be someone you’re not while you wait for everyone to wake up one day and start accepting you. It’ll never happen.”

Athos isn’t sure he and Porthos have ever talked about this. Not _properly_. They’ve put on brave faces at awkward family events and they’ve comforted one another afterwards, but they’ve never really talked about whether they should _do_ something about it. Content, he supposes, for the person whose family it is to dictate the approach.

He’s not saying they should have fought back, necessarily, but perhaps it should have been an option.

“Absolutely. But I’ve brought the mood right down, haven’t I?” Aramis says apologetically. “Anyway. I am vegetarian, that was true, but while I think reincarnation’s a very interesting idea, I don’t really believe I was a rabbit in a previous life.”

“Glad to hear it,” Athos says faintly.

He catches Porthos’ eye, and that’s it – they both crack up, Aramis’ laughter joining theirs a second later until Athos is curled in on himself and wiping a tear from his eye, unable to remember when he last laughed this hard, or felt this good.

“Oh God, that’s good,” Aramis says, echoing Athos’ thoughts exactly. “Laughter’s the best medicine, my mum always says. But now I want to hear about you guys. I mean, Porthos gave me the basics, but I’d love to hear the whole story. I mean, look at you both – eighteen and in love.”

He beams at them both, and Athos can’t help shrugging awkwardly, because he’s never really liked being the centre of attention – especially when it relates to his relationship, given how almost all the attention they’ve ever had has been negative.

He looks pleadingly at Porthos – _help me out here?_

And because Porthos is brilliant, he does. “We met when we were eleven. Sat together in maths. Alphabetical seating. And we just – hit it off, I suppose.”

 _Well, not quite_ , Athos thinks – and he’s fairly sure Porthos doesn’t remember it particularly differently. That they were both misfits in their class, Porthos one of the few kids who’d come from the state primary school the next town over and Athos himself not quite disliked but not at all gregarious, always thinking, thinking, thinking but having nothing to say for it.

And sitting together made him even worse at first; Porthos was sulky and defensive and seemed to have a terrible chip on his shoulder, forever attacking before he could be attacked, and accusing Athos of being stuck up when he wouldn’t argue back.

He knows it must have happened, because he remembers it, though now it seems like a distant dream.

“Well, it took a while. We got on terribly at first,” he clarifies, “but we slowly started to iron out our differences, and by the end of the year I found myself actually looking forward to maths because I knew I’d get to sit next to him. After that, we were firm friends.”

“And then you fell in love,” Aramis prompts, the expression on his face what Athos would only describe as dreamy.

Well. _And then I spent two years being secretly in love with him and terrified to say a word about it,_ Athos thinks.

What he says is, “Eventually, yes.”

“I liked him for a while, actually,” Porthos confesses – always the more honest of the two of them, “I was just scared of wrecking everything. Took a bit of time to screw up the courage to say I liked boys. When he said I wasn’t the only one, well... we were at his parents’ house, down in the den playing Mario Kart or something, and I asked if I could kiss him. It only lasted about five seconds before we heard someone coming down the stairs. It was Tom, and of course he wanted to play too. And I kept looking at Athos over Tom’s head and thinking, all I wanted was to do it again.” He grins sheepishly. “I’m not very good at talking about it, really. Never have.”

Aramis frowns. “You’ve never been good at talking about it, or you’ve never talked about it?”

“Never talked about it. I mean, there wasn’t anyone to tell. Nobody at school, and when Athos turned sixteen we told his parents, and Mr Tréville, but –”

“Mr who?”

“Ah, yeah. So I had to stop living with my foster mother when I was sixteen. The council cut my funding – too many other kids who needed fostering, apparently – and she couldn’t support me on my own. So I was looking at having to get a job instead of being able to do my A-Levels.”

“Oh, that’s awful.” Aramis’ face creases in sympathy. “You couldn’t have stayed with Athos?”

Athos is sure the question’s innocent, but the guilt still lingers – and he finds himself saying a little defensively, “We’d just told my parents. Porthos wasn’t welcome at my house.”

He knows it wasn’t his fault, and that there’s nothing he could have done in any case. But still.

“So I told Mr Tréville I’d have to leave school, he was my geography teacher and our form tutor,” Porthos picks up again, not giving Aramis a moment to start apologising, “and he said he had a spare bedroom, and if I got a Saturday job and put something towards my food, then it was mine until I finished school. Just like that. I was so shocked, I blurted out, ‘But I’m not even doing geography’. He was ex-army. That was the first time I’d ever seen him smile.

“I told him I had a boyfriend as well. Right then, just to get it out there before I got attached to the idea. I was still furious with Athos’ parents, and the stupid part of me thought that if it made a difference then I didn’t want his spare bedroom. Athos was furious when I told him.” Porthos smiles at him, and he can’t help smiling back. “But Tréville was okay about it. He said Athos could come over, just not in the bedroom. We watched a lot of telly and held hands where he couldn’t see.”

“But your parents came around?” Aramis asks, looking at Athos again.

“Eventually, yes. It took a few months, and that Christmas stand-off. I mean, they knew they couldn’t stop me seeing him at school in any case. They’ve never exactly been happy about it, though. But I should check on the food,” Athos excuses himself, getting to his feet before anyone can point out that the oven timer’s not even gone off yet.

He’d expected to find he’d hate talking about his relationship, that it would make him feel just as uncomfortable, as defensive as it always has before; but for the first time ever he’s no longer in fear of the consequences, and as he gets the plates out of the cupboard he decides that he’s just unused to the idea that someone might actually be interested in them.

The only other people they’d ever told had all been adults, who all exhibited varying degrees of not really wanting to know. His parents forbade him from telling Tom – right up until Athos announced his and Porthos’ intention to move in together, at which point they evidently decided it was no longer worth trying to hide it.

When they came to uni, Athos decided everything would change. They’d make other friends for the first time in their lives since childhood, and they’d be out to them. And he knows it hasn’t even been a whole term yet, but he’s begun to think that university is less the promised land of freedom and exciting new experiences that he’s always been led to believe, and actually isn’t that much different to school. That people still look at you differently when you say you have a boyfriend. That you don’t connect with people, don’t get invited to things. That you don’t know what to say to them any more than you ever have.

The oven finally beeps, jolting him out of his self-pity.

As he gets the pizzas out and puts them on plates, Athos tells himself firmly that it’ll all be okay. That though they may have had a slow start they’re making a friend right now, and that he genuinely wants to know.

Once he’s got some food in him, Athos starts to relax properly; and Aramis proves to be every bit as engaging as he was at Athos’ family dinner, telling them all about his own family and his life in halls. He’s in the LGBT Soc and a perhaps-unlikely member of the rifle club, though he describes it as “full of posh arseholes”, probably all the people from Athos’ course.

He realises very quickly that he loves listening to Aramis talk. He could listen for hours, he thinks, and Aramis could hold his interest on any subject he chose, just because it was him talking. If he’s honest, though, at least half the charm is _watching_ him talk, appreciating the sparkle in his dark eyes and his ready smile, the glint of his nose ring where it catches the light – which Athos would have found ridiculous on anybody else, but on Aramis it just seems to fit.

Okay, so maybe he’s a bit smitten.

But it’s not like it has to mean anything. He’s happy with Porthos, and he has no intention of jeopardising that happiness.

“So what do you guys do for fun?” Aramis asks, snapping Athos out of his daze.

“Not that much, I’m afraid,” he replies, finding he’s a little embarrassed. “To be honest, we’ve not really got off the ground yet, what with work – we’ve both got a lot of contact hours – and then Porthos has a job as well, there’s not been much spare time. We’ve been to a few societies, but nothing’s stuck so far.”

That’s not a bad summation, he decides. It doesn’t make them sound _too_ hopeless.

“Well, there’s a party on Saturday, you should definitely come along,” Aramis offers immediately, and even though Athos has always found the word _party_ vaguely terrifying, Aramis is smiling at him so kindly that he says _yes, of course, we’d love to_ – and it’s not until Aramis finally leaves them late that evening with a kiss on the cheek (and Athos does _not_ breathe in his scent, he refuses to be quite that pathetic) and the room seems suddenly a little too empty without him that Athos really thinks about what he’s done.

“A party,” he says, looking warily at Porthos from the other side of the sofa – before he realises how stupid it is to stay there, and moves into the place Aramis has just vacated. “I really hope this is a good idea.”

“It’ll be great,” Porthos replies, giving Athos that look of his that means _don’t knock it till you’ve tried it_ before slinging his arm round Athos’ shoulders. “We’ll just grab a drink, stand as far away from any music there is as possible and find some interesting people to talk to. I’m sure Aramis will hook us up.” Something in his expression turns soft and a little distant, as if he’s imagining it already, Athos thinks. “He’s really got a knack for people, doesn’t he?”

“Well, he managed to make conversation with me for a whole evening,” Athos jokes weakly, shrugging in apology as Porthos gives him a quelling look. “But yeah, he’s...”

_Open. Friendly. Charming. Someone I want in my life._

_Someone I could like far more than I should._

“He’s interested in us,” he says in the end, daring to look up at Porthos. “It’s rather... attractive.”

He thinks he’s gone too far for a moment, given himself away; but Porthos just grins back. “Yeah, it is. I could get used to it myself.”

For the rest of the week Athos spends his time doing as much work as is humanly possible, resolutely not thinking about Aramis or about any of the things that might happen on Saturday. He’s been getting rather good at working – if he can convince himself he’s snowed under then all questions of perhaps not socialising enough are brushed neatly to one side – and so he buries himself in statistical methods and doesn’t think of anything else until he’s lying in bed at night, listening to Porthos’ breathing and trying not to think about how Aramis always makes him feel slightly breathless, as though the mere force of his presence is more than Athos can handle.

He’s never felt that way about Porthos, _ever,_ not even in the grip of first passion; though Porthos is home and comfort, a place of safety, and Athos can’t imagine it feeling better in anyone else’s arms.

And that’s the difference, isn’t it? Between love, and infatuation.

He just wishes it was love that was keeping him up at night.

What’s even worse is that Porthos seems to have picked up on his mood, and they’re dancing round each other in a way that reminds Athos of being fifteen, both full of new want and desires they couldn’t yet articulate – except that this time the whole feeling is less exciting and more guilty.

He knows he’ll have to confess, if things go on like this much longer. He’ll have to disappoint Porthos, who’s never been anything but good to him.

 _I’ll do it after the party_ , he decides. He’ll give himself one more chance to get over it first. Perhaps they’ll turn up and Aramis will end up ignoring them all evening in favour of people who are more interesting and attractive, and that will be enough to prompt Athos to get his head together.

Meanwhile, he learns enough statistics to recite it backwards in his sleep; and at least when they have a few glasses of wine on Friday night before retiring to the bedroom to suck each other off Athos manages to think of nobody but Porthos, otherwise he suspects it would have been game over already.

As usual, Porthos is at work on Saturday, and Athos means to do some cleaning but actually stays in bed until gone two, cracking open a dog-eared copy of Rilke’s _Selected Poems_ that he pinched from his parents’ bookshelf at random pages, and sinking into the words.

It’s weird to imagine either of his parents owning this. Weirder still to imagine one of them _caring_ for it – somebody must have, it’s clearly been well-read – wrapping themselves in the images, a balm for their raw edges, shoring up their faith in love.

He’s not sure he could even say for certain that his parents love each other, or ever did. He’s always assumed they must have, that behind closed doors they were other, affectionate versions of themselves – but since he’s loved himself he’s known the signs, has looked for them and come up short.

Perhaps everything they once meant to each other has been lost, eroded in the grind of the passing years; and he finds himself swearing with a fierceness that surprises him that he will never be like that.

He will never take Porthos for granted, never let them lose sight of what they mean to each other, though they’ve never been particularly good at expressing it.

They’ll get better, then, and he’ll talk about what’s bothering him – after the party – and he’s sure it’ll be okay. After all, it’s not like he’s _done_ anything; and while he has no experience in the matter, he’s sure his feelings will fade given time, or he’ll get used to them at the very least.

Feeling marginally better about things, he finally drags himself out of bed and round the supermarket for something for dinner – reminding himself he was going to learn to cook something other than pasta bolognese at some point – and two bottles of not-too-terrible wine for the party, before coming home and losing himself in the rhythm of a recipe that’s quickly becoming second-nature.

Porthos gets home just as he’s putting the pasta on, and then they eat in near-silence, Athos feeling newly guilty for the way his mood appears to be rubbing off. Porthos is normally the friendly, outgoing one who takes everything at face-value, not the one who’s awkward and never expects to get on with anybody, and he’ll feel absolutely terrible if it turns out he’s dragging Porthos down to his level; but now is hardly the time, and so Athos goes to stand in front of the open wardrobe and wonder why all the clothes he owns are so terrible even though he knows the answer all too well, which is that he’s never cared about clothes before because he’s never wanted to impress someone before, as if a nice shirt would make a blind bit of difference once he opens his mouth anyway.

“You having trouble choosing?”

Porthos’ arms wrap around his waist, and Athos feels a head rest against his shoulder.

“It seems I’m concerned about making a good impression,” Athos admits – which is at least the truth, if not the whole truth. “Though I don’t think it’ll make a difference.”

“As long as you mean that everyone’s gonna realise just how great you are whatever you’re wearing,” Porthos chides gently, turning his head to brush a kiss to Athos’ cheek. “You’ve got this, love. You’re not half as bad with people as you think you are. Look at how you were chatting away with Aramis the other day.”

 _And that’s exactly the problem_ , Athos thinks; but he makes himself nod, and says, “Well, if the worst comes to the worst then I’ll just glue myself to your side all evening.”

“Fine by me. I like having you there. And if it helps, I think you should just pick something you feel comfortable in. Navy blue T-shirt, maybe, I’ve always thought those look good on you.”

“Thank you,” Athos replies, turning to wrap his arms around Porthos’ neck for a heartfelt kiss. “You’re far too good to me.”

“Bollocks. I’m exactly as good to you as I should be.” Porthos’ voice is stern, but the effect’s undercut by the way his hands slide down Athos’ back to cup his arse, squeezing a little. “You know, I think we’ve still got a bit of time before we need to get dressed.”

“Won’t we be late?” Athos asks, somewhat breathlessly; Porthos is pressing _very_ close, and his own hands are sliding down Porthos’ shoulders to grip his biceps – and okay, that was a serious mistake if he wanted to pretend to either of them this isn’t a good idea, and he’s walking Porthos back towards the bed as much as Porthos is walking him, dragging him down to the mattress just as much as he’s being pushed.

“It’s a party. You can’t be late to a party,” Porthos says with finality, just before he seals his mouth over Athos’.

They _are_ late after that, of course, and it’s nearly nine before they make it to Aramis’ halls. At least, Athos can’t shake the feeling of being late, even though upon further interrogation he discovers that Aramis never actually specified a time.

One of the smokers outside opens the block door for them, at which point it’s simply a question of following the noise, up two flights of stairs and along a corridor filled with open room doors and people sitting half-inside them on a variety of repurposed bedding, drinking something out of mugs that Athos doesn’t think is tea or coffee.

Aramis is in the kitchen – _thank God_ – wearing a V-necked T-shirt and a pair of skinny jeans that look to Athos uncomfortably like they’ve been painted on. He’s mid-laugh watching a redhead grimacing as she drinks half of something brown and cloudy that looks like it could be homebrew, before screwing up her face and putting it down again, saying, “No, no, I can’t do it!”

That’s when he sees them, and gets up, exclaiming, “Hey! You made it!” as he comes round and kisses them both on the cheek, resting his hand on Athos’ waist for a moment that’s simultaneously too long and too short. His eyes are just a little too bright, his voice a little too loud and his hair a little too wild, and he’s painfully beautiful in a way that makes Athos wish he were a little less sober right now, just to dim the light of Aramis in his eyes.

Any fears he had about being abandoned were unfounded, as Aramis takes them both immediately under his wing, finding them something to pour themselves a drink into (Porthos ends up with two stacked plastic cups, Athos a Manchester City mug), and it’s only when Athos excuses himself from talking to Adèle, he thinks her name was, about her gap year to pour himself another drink that he realises he’s genuinely having a good time. It’s as if Aramis’ own charm and personableness have rubbed off on him, Athos decides, finding that he’s genuinely interested in everyone he’s spoken to and isn’t just struggling for conversational topics, and perhaps this whole university thing isn’t quite as difficult as he’d thought.

He’d completely lost track of Aramis a while ago; but as he screws the cap back on the wine, a hand lands without warning on his wrist, another on his waist. “There you are,” Aramis murmurs, voice surprisingly close to his ear; and Athos can’t help it, he’s breathing in the scent of bergamot and something fruity before he can get himself under control. “Come and join us? And bring that bottle.”

He doesn’t know who ‘us’ is, but he lets Aramis lead him down to the first floor – where it’s at least marginally quieter – and along one of the long corridors, pushing open a door to the right that he realises immediately must be Aramis’ room – fairy lights and an overwhelming smell of patchouli – and Porthos, already sitting cross-legged on the bed, and looking a little sheepish, Athos thinks.

“Found him!” Aramis announces, manoeuvring Athos into the room. “Sit yourself down. Now, I have a small confession to make,” he continues, as Athos sits himself down beside Porthos, only barely pressed up against him, “which is that despite having invited you both to come here and meet some people, I can’t help wanting you both to myself.”

Athos doesn’t say anything. In fact, he hardly dares breathe.

“And there’s also the small matter,” he continues, opening his bedside drawer and scrabbling about for a moment, before pulling out a small metal biscuit tin that makes Athos think of his mother’s sewing kit, “of me only having enough for three.”

The tin does not contain sewing supplies; instead it contains a pouch of tobacco, rolling papers, filters, a lighter, and a clear bag with a small, brown, sticky-looking lump of something inside.

“Is that...?”

“Hashish,” Aramis confirms, holding up the little bag for emphasis, his eyes bright. “You up for it?”

Athos expects at least one of them to say no, if not himself then Porthos; but when there’s no immediate response they both turn to look at each other, matching questions in their faces.

He’s pretty sure this is a terrible idea, especially when they’ve both been drinking – but there’s something strangely alluring about it, though he doesn’t know if it’s the thrill of the forbidden or the thrill of Aramis’ presence, or even the thrill of being someone other than his usual boring self, someone who’s a little less straight-laced.

When he thinks _my parents would be furious_ , of course that decides him.

He raises his eyebrows at Porthos, _you up for it?_

Porthos’ smile is surprised, but he nods, _yeah, why not?_

“Yeah, alright,” Athos replies. “We haven’t before, though.”

“Oh, no problem. I’ll look after you,” Aramis winks broadly, before pulling over his desk chair and plonking himself down in it, already getting a few papers out of the packet. “I’ll just roll the one, that’ll be fine for the three of us. All we want to do is get a bit mellow, really.”

As Aramis busies himself rolling the joint, Athos takes the opportunity to get a good look around the room. Aramis has what appears to be some kind of Indian-style cloth hung on the wall behind them, fairy lights draped haphazardly along the curtain rail and down along his desk, illuminating a corkboard stuffed full with postcards, photographs and what might be ticket stubs. He’s got a reasonable selection of books too, Athos decides, though he can’t quite see the titles from here. Overall, the room seems to suit him down to the ground.

Athos turns to look at Porthos, thinking, _well look at us then,_ and receives a grin in return, and a hand curling into his; at which he leans into Porthos’ shoulder, and Porthos shifts up and puts an arm around him, pulling him closer.

On impulse, Athos leans in to press a kiss to his cheek.

“Oh, just look at you two!” Aramis exclaims – Athos hadn’t noticed him look up, and he feels a little exposed under his scrutiny for a moment, almost pulls away before Aramis climbs onto the mattress next to him, leaving the finished joint and lighter on the beside table. “You’ll have to tell me your secret.”

Athos frowns in confusion. “What secret?”

“Why, the secret of your happiness, of course,” Aramis replies, unscrewing the cap from Athos’ wine and taking a swig straight from the bottle.

“We’re just lucky, I guess,” Porthos replies, though his hand tightens near-imperceptibly around Athos’ shoulders. “That we met when we did. It all just sort of happened.”

Athos would have said the same. It all did just happen, though it’s always felt so fraught – between the initial need for secrecy, his parents’ disapproval and Amelia’s outright rejection of them – that even though he loves Porthos, he’s not sure he’s ever felt their relationship is anything to aspire to, and to have Aramis look at them that way mostly just unnerves him.

He tries to smile anyway, though it probably looks a bit strained.

As Aramis picks up the joint and lighter, something occurs to Athos. “Won’t we set the smoke alarm off?”

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s bagged,” Aramis replies, pointing up at the ceiling, where a plastic bag has been taped around the alarm. “But good on reminding me to open the window.”

“Please tell me you don’t leave it like that,” Porthos says, fixing Aramis with a stern look; but he just grins as he yanks the window open, a blast of cool night air rushing in.

“Now, if neither of you’ve smoked before,” Aramis says as he lights the joint, “the last thing I want is for you to overdo it, especially when you’ve already been drinking. So I’d like to propose that we start by shotgunning? If I’m controlling the hit then you’re not going to bite off more than you can chew.”

 _Shotgunning_ , Athos thinks, the word echoing in his mind like – well, like a shot.

It’s only Aramis’ mouth on his – which has already happened once, though he didn’t have a chance to appreciate it at the time.

Who is he kidding. There’s no _only_ about it.

In fact, this might be his only chance to ever do this.

Very much not looking at Porthos, he replies, “Yeah, that sounds sensible.”

He holds his breath, hating himself just a little for the way he’s inwardly begging Porthos not to object.

When Porthos says, “Yeah, good idea,” in a voice that sounds only a little strained, Athos has to clamp down on the sudden urge to kiss him for it, knowing that he’d be giving himself away instantly.

They’ve both been kissed by Aramis already, and Porthos must realise as well that this is nothing more than that. Just lips on lips, a means to an end. No matter how hard his heart insists on pounding.

Athos has to look at Porthos when he squeezes his shoulder; and though he meets his eyes reluctantly, worried about what he’ll find there – and what Porthos will see in him – he finds that Porthos only looks a little concerned, in the way he does when he wants to be sure Athos is alright with something.

“Here’s to university,” Athos says wryly, to try and reassure him.

Porthos has always been straightforward, after all. If he had a real problem with this, Athos knows he would have said so.

“Okay.” Aramis shifts round onto his knees with the lit joint in hand before taking a first drag, breathing it in deep, a little smoke curling out through his nostrils before he exhales properly a few moments later, the strange, almost-sweet smell of cannabis suddenly assaulting Athos’ senses. “Who’s up first?”

Again there’s a moment of silence, before Porthos surprises Athos completely by turning to him again and saying, “You go. Unless you want me to?”

“No, I’ll go,” Athos replies, in a voice that doesn’t feel like his own, suddenly more than a little nervous of what he’s let himself in for.

Fortunately Aramis sees it, and takes charge immediately. “Okay, kneel up and face me. Now, I’m going to take a drag, then blow it into your mouth. Hold it there for a moment before breathing in. Don’t rush yourself – if you don’t inhale properly then that’s still better than choking on the smoke. If you need to cough, try and exhale fully first. Ready?”

_Well, here goes nothing._

“Okay. Ready.”

His gaze suddenly very focused for someone under more than one influence, Aramis takes a hit from the joint before leaning in, his nose ring glinting in the light, and one hand cupping Athos’ cheek; and Athos just about has time to realise he needs to exhale his lungful of air before Aramis seals their lips together and fills his mouth with hot, acrid smoke.

Athos closes his eyes.

It’s – well, it’s not _nice_ , people clearly do this for the effects rather than for the sensory experience; but Aramis’ hand is cool against his cheek – Athos feels like his face is on fire suddenly – and there’s an intake of breath coming from behind him that he is _not_ going to think about now, he’s going to get over himself and his silly crush after tonight but first he’s going to have this moment – and it’s over far too quickly, Aramis is pulling away and Athos blinks his eyes open stupidly – he shouldn’t have closed them, how fucking stupid, _everyone_ must have seen that, he’ll just have to brazen it out – and inhales the smoke that’s in his mouth and holds it in his lungs for a few seconds, managing not to cough.

“Hey, you’re a natural,” Aramis grins disarmingly as Athos exhales, already passing over the bottle of wine. “Porthos, you’re up.”

Athos is so, _so_ glad Aramis didn’t ask him how it was. He’s not sure he could speak right now.

He just needs some time first, to make sense of how he feels. Of what he had, of it being over, of _Porthos –_

– who’s kneeling beside him and leaning into Aramis’ hand against his jaw as Aramis presses their mouths together, and it may be a means to an end but from where Athos is sitting it looks rather like a kiss; and Athos thought seeing them together would either do nothing for him or make him jealous but actually it looks _amazing_ , makes him want things he’s never even considered before, and he’s so glad they’ve drunk a fair bit or he thinks he’d be hard just from watching this.

Just as Aramis pulls away, Athos notices that Porthos had his eyes closed too.

After that they pass around the rest of the joint, and Athos inhales carefully and doesn’t embarrass himself by choking; and gradually he notices a new, warm sort of awareness settle over him that he knows from experience isn’t the alcohol. It’s a strange mix of feeling relaxed, but at the same time very _aware_ of everything he sees and hears, of the details that make up the whole picture: the snub of Porthos’ nose, the tightly-packed curls of his hair, and when he reaches up and winds one lock around his fingers, the smile Porthos sends his way is almost enough to make him melt into the bed.

“How does it feel?” Aramis asks; and Athos knows he should be embarrassed that Aramis saw but he can’t quite manage it, instead everything feels very important and worth noting and like it would be interesting to touch.

“It feels good. I feel very – present.”

“Do you do this a lot?” Porthos asks Aramis, his fingers tracing little patterns on Athos’ arm that are actually rather distracting.

“Only occasionally. I don’t want to become a proper stoner, but I like it as an every-now-and-again thing. It’s definitely a lot more fun with company.”

Is it just Athos, or is there something meaningful in Aramis’ smile?

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Aramis continues, levering himself off the bed – Athos is absolutely _not_ watching his arse in those skinny jeans as he gets to his feet – and disappearing out of the door.

“How’s it for you?” he asks Porthos.

“Yeah, it’s good. Very...” his fingers move to Athos’ wrist, and he really should _not_ be doing that here, Athos thinks, though the part of him that’s always loved it is shouting louder now than the part of him that actually cares, “...very sensual.”

“I think you mean ‘sensuous’,” Athos offers, wondering when his mouth got so dry.

“Is that right,” Porthos replies with a fond smile, hand already around the back of Athos’ neck as he pulls him in for a kiss.

If looking at things while stoned was good, kissing while stoned is _amazing_ , Athos decides as he feels every movement of Porthos’ lips against his, so soft and wet and downright delicious, feels the scrape of stubble against his upper lip and the cotton under his hands as they fist in Porthos’ shirt; and he clambers unsteadily into his lap, wanting to get even closer to him, wondering what it would feel like to _fuck_ like this, to have Porthos fuck him, the intensity of it almost unbearable even when he’s sober.

When he hears the door open again, Athos scrambles mortified out of Porthos’ lap, finally remembering where they are, and what is he _doing?_

“Hey, don’t stop on my account,” Aramis grins, his gaze a little unfocused from the booze and the weed – and to Athos’ eyes it looks almost like desire, which is a road he absolutely does not need to go down right now.

“But we’re in your room,” Athos points out – perhaps more belligerently than he ought, but he’s not used to this, to any of the things he’s felt this evening, and the whole situation’s rapidly starting to look a bit fucked-up.

“To which I invited you,” Aramis counters, heaving himself back onto the bed. “Is it really a surprise that I like seeing you two together?”

Athos has his mouth open to argue right back when he finally makes the connection between what Aramis has just said, and the way he felt when he looked at Aramis and Porthos – and maybe, just maybe, the little gasp he heard from Porthos as Aramis pressed his mouth to Athos’.

Is this why Aramis invited them here?

Feeling entirely out of his depth, he looks automatically to Porthos to save him.

Porthos leans over, hand gripping his shoulder. “Are you alright with this?” he asks, expression concerned, and ignoring Aramis entirely.

Athos isn’t sure if it’s just a weird turn of phrase, but it sounds a lot like he’s being asked to consent to something. “Am I alright with _what?_ ” he asks tetchily, uncomfortable with the idea that he seems to be the only one who doesn’t know what’s happening here. “What have I missed?”

Aramis reaches out and puts a hand on Athos’ knee.

“You must have realised that I like you both. A lot.” His eyes flick from Athos to Porthos, and back again. “And I’d quite like to kiss you if I may. Both of you.”

Something in Athos’ chest manages to climb sky-high and then plunge back to earth in mere moments as Aramis’ words register, as he realises what he’s being offered and then that he _can’t, surely Porthos won’t_ –

– and something goes spinning off beyond his capacity to reel it in, off into the night as Porthos replies, voice hoarse and gravelly from the smoke, “Yeah, I’d like that. Athos?”

“Athos?” Aramis repeats; and looking at him is almost painful, like looking at a star or a bright light.

He can’t speak, he doesn’t think he could get the words out; but he nods once, twice, and that’s enough for Aramis to grin, soft and lopsided as he reaches for him, rocking up onto his knees and kissing him _properly_.

Aramis’ lips feel different, still soft but firmer than Porthos’ somehow, and his face is clean-shaven and smooth against Athos’. He takes charge of the kiss, coaxing Athos’ lips apart and just dipping in with his tongue so Athos feels what’s being offered him, feels one of Aramis’ hands frame his jaw and the other steadying him on Athos’ knee, one of Porthos’ hands curling into his own, and he doesn’t understand why Porthos is okay with this but he’s sure as hell not going to argue about it now, not when this is what he gets.

As Aramis finally pulls back, with a tiny nip to Athos’ lower lip, he feels _dazed_ with it – never mind the booze or the weed, he’s more drunk on this kiss than on both of them combined.

He just about registers Aramis saying, “Why don’t we all get more comfortable? I’ll shift round a bit.”

There’s not nearly enough room, and Athos ends up leaning half-against Porthos who’s leaning fully against the wall, with Aramis stretched out along the length of the bed and mostly-facing Athos, his legs hooked over Athos’ own.

“It’s a bit tight, I’m afraid,” Aramis apologises, and Athos very definitely doesn’t think about the double bed in their flat, “but I don’t want anyone to feel out on a limb. Porthos?”

“About time,” Porthos grins, keeping Athos’ hand firmly in his grasp as he leans forward and Aramis twists around, and then they’re kissing.

And _God_ , it’s a sight to see. Athos doesn’t know if it’s an effect of the weed but he’s fixated on the way their lips seek each other out, learn each other, the tantalising flashes of tongue – Porthos is clearly more daring than he was, then – the steady pressure of Porthos’ hand in his, and Aramis’ hand resting back on his knee.

He thinks he could watch this forever, and never get tired of it.

As Aramis pulls away, rocking back on his heels, he says, “You two don’t have an arrangement, do you?”

Athos is still wondering what he means when Porthos replies, “No, we don’t,” at which point he decides it should really have been obvious.

“Okay. So I don’t want to propose anything else right now, not until you two have had a chance to talk about what you might want –” and _oh_ , Athos feels his face flushing anew as he realises just what Aramis could have proposed, and even though his cock’s suddenly _very_ interested he’s pretty sure it’s for the best – “but for tonight, I’d like it very much if we can keep doing this.”

“Sounds good to me,” Porthos grins – and Athos looks up sharply, shocked all over again by how at ease Porthos seems to be with all this.

It’s the chance to kiss someone who isn’t Athos, probably, the chance for a new experience; because even though Athos knows Porthos loves him, he’s all too aware of the compromises that entails. Settling down prematurely, in a flat off-campus because Athos didn’t want to live with strangers; working almost every hour he’s not studying just to afford the rent, barely having a chance to meet people or have fun or do all the things you’re supposed to do at university.

Even though Porthos has reassured him multiple times that he’s right where he wants to be, Athos can’t help doubting, because he sometimes feels the same way. It’s awful and ungrateful of him, but even though he’s crap at people, he sometimes wondered what it would have been like without Porthos. Maybe halls wouldn’t have been as bad as he thought. Maybe he would have liked his hall mates, and had a proper group of friends for the first time. Maybe he would have met a nice boy or a nice girl, and fallen for them like a ton of bricks.

If he wonders what could have been, then of course Porthos must do too.

“Athos. Are you okay?”

He realises Porthos is looking at him in worry, rubbing his hand in both of his; and that brings on a fresh surge of guilt for how he’s derailing the evening, getting lost inside his own head and casting a shadow on what feels like the first proper university experience they’ve had.

“Sorry. I’m fine,” he lies, forcing a smile.

He’s drunk and he’s stoned and he doesn’t feel quite right in his own skin, and the last thing he needs now is self-reflection.

No, he needs to seize the moment, go with the flow, and just enjoy what he’s being offered. Excitement, experimentation; the chance to be someone else for a night and to taste another life, without having to wreck his own life to get it.

He firmly ignores Porthos’ unconvinced expression and tugs him in for a kiss, reaching at the same time for Aramis’ hand, entwining their fingers and relishing Porthos’ appreciative intake of breath as he tugs at his lower lip with his teeth, pulling him as close as their bodies will allow and losing himself in the familiar warmth of him, and the new frisson of being watched.

“I really envy you both, you know,” Aramis says as Athos finally lets Porthos go, already reaching for the wine – and when he looks up Aramis is smiling, though Athos isn’t completely sure he’s convinced by it.

“Why’s that, then?” Porthos asks, and Athos knows him well enough to know he isn’t buying it either.

“That you’ve found each other,” Aramis admits, letting his smile fall away to reveal open longing, “that you just _work_ together. I’ve – never made it work like that. Even though I know I’m just not made that way, I still can’t help dreaming the dream.”

Athos could say so many things in reply. That the dream is no more than that – a dream, even for them; that it’s ridiculous for Aramis to envy them when Athos finds himself envying _him_ ; that Athos may ruin everything yet with the call of his restless heart.

But saying any of these things would mean baring his soul, and he’s not ready to do that just yet; and so he leans in and just kisses Aramis again, trying as hard as he can to think of nothing at all.

It’s some ridiculous hour of the morning when Athos and Porthos finally stumble home, the traffic lights at the crossing frozen on red and their breath coming in clouds, the residual warmth of the alcohol only just keeping the cold at bay, Athos’ fingers entwined with Porthos’ in his coat pocket, and neither of them saying a word.

“Let’s talk about this in the morning, when we’re both sober,” Porthos says, as he makes Athos drink a pint of water before bed, his eyes very kind, and very tired. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” Athos replies, because whatever traitorous thoughts he may have, that remains true, squatting silver-bright in the centre of his heart where not even he can tarnish it.

Porthos falls asleep almost immediately, as usual; and Athos tosses and turns and searches for cool places on his pillow, thinking of how they sat for what felt like hours just kissing each other, hands joined in a loose circle, and how it barely feels real any more. How Aramis envies them – the grass is always greener, he supposes – and how he walked them to the block door afterwards and kissed them both one last time, lingering on their mouths with his hands on their waists, saying, “Call me,” with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, as if he fully expected them not to.

It feels as though Athos lies suspended in that half-life of drunken drowsiness forever; and yet morning comes all too soon.

He manages to put off the inevitable for nearly an hour by pretending his hangover is slightly worse than it actually is, but Porthos just brings him a cup of tea, two paracetamol and a bacon sandwich in bed; and he snuggles up to Athos with his own plate balanced on his knees and asks, quiet and gentle as only Athos has ever had the privilege to hear him, “You feeling okay about last night?”

Because Athos is sometimes a terrible person, at the heart of him is still that instinctive clenching fear that says, clear as a bell in his mind, _trap_.

 _This is Porthos_ , he reminds himself. Who grew up blessedly free from the influences of Athos’ fucked-up family, who has never manipulated or knowingly wounded, who is honest and straightforward and who cares more about Athos than he expects his parents ever have.

Besides, he promised himself he’d talk about this – and he doubts he’ll ever have a better opening than this one.

“I am, yeah,” he says to his sandwich – which is the truth in spirit although not in letter, because there are a number of things he’s not okay about, but what they actually did last night is not one of them. “Possibly... a little more than I should be?”

While he still baulks from the idea of just saying everything that’s on his mind and letting events take their course, especially when he fully expects it to cause pain, they have done this a few times now in their years together; and Athos hopes Porthos will pick up on his hints as he always has, and will instinctively understand what conclusion Athos is leading him towards.

“While there’s no such thing as ‘should be’ - I’m glad,” Porthos says, mock-frowning at Athos as he reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. “Really glad. ‘Cause it makes it a bit easier to tell you that I quite like him. I mean, _like him_ like him.”

“Oh,” Athos manages, for a moment completely stuck for how to respond.

He supposes he’d sort of wondered. It explains Porthos wanting to kiss Aramis, at least, and maybe explains why Porthos didn’t mind Athos kissing him too. But he’s still surprised to have it just put out there. For Porthos to show him such vulnerability, and to let Athos do with it as he pleases.

God, he’s still pretty fucked-up at heart, isn’t he?

Porthos’ hand tightens on his shoulder as he asks, “Are you upset? I mean, I didn’t want to keep it a secret, but I’d understand if you were.”

“That would be pretty hypocritical of me,” Athos confesses, finally daring to look up, and hoping that Porthos will read between the lines just as astutely as he always has.

“Oh. Well. I did have a suspicion, but – that was even easier than I was hoping,” Porthos grins, and Athos can’t help grinning back just a little, marvelling again at just how easy Porthos makes everything.

“So, what are we gonna do about it?”

Athos blinks in shock, feeling as though he’d just about got a handle on this conversation only for the rug to be pulled entirely out from under his feet, leaving him flat on his back. “What?”

“Well...” Porthos replies, infinitely patient, “I like him. You like him. Based on last night, I think we can assume he likes both of us. And he’s poly.”

“But we’re not,” Athos objects immediately.

“But what if we could be?”

When Athos doesn’t immediately reply, Porthos shifts himself over a little more, so that he’s leaning against him. “Look. I love you, I never want you to doubt that. I like the life we’ve made for ourselves, and I’d make the same choices again. But when we made these choices, there are other ones we didn’t make, right? Living here means we’re never going to have quite the full university experience, and there’s a small part of me that wonders what might have been. Like living in halls, being more outgoing, more spontaneous... kissing other people. But then I realised last night,” he continues, giving Athos no time at all to worry that Porthos has got tired of him, “it’s not a question of ‘either or’. We can do any of those things together, if it’s what we both want.”

And looking at the earnest hope in Porthos’ face finally gives Athos the courage to say, “I thought I was the only one who felt that way. That we were settling down too early and not ‘doing’ university properly.” He can’t help grimacing. “That my parents might actually have been right about something.”

“They were only ever half right,” Porthos replies, the smile spreading back over his face as if he just can’t suppress it. “We shouldn’t hold ourselves back from the things we want because we think we’re supposed to be a certain way. But we need to put each other first, and make sure we’re in everything together.”

In response, Athos leans in for a kiss, before resting his forehead against Porthos’ shoulder for a moment and grasping his biceps with a hand, as close as he can manage to a proper hug while they’ve both got food on their laps. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” Porthos squeezes his shoulder. “Now eat your sandwich before you waste away.”

Athos rolls his eyes. “I don’t think there’s any danger of that.”

But he does as he’s told, and the room is filled with the sounds of munching for a few minutes, and Athos is most of the way through his sandwich before he says, “So what, exactly, are you proposing? Regarding Aramis.”

“Okay.” Porthos swallows his food. “So if we’re gonna do this, then our relationship comes first, before anything that might develop with him. At least at first, while we’re still figuring out what we’re doing here. The last thing I want to do is mess this up because we get in over our heads.”

“That makes sense.”

“Then, after that, I don’t really know yet – but I suppose it’s a question of whether we want to date him, or just have sex with him.”

“I don’t think I’m the casual sex type,” Athos manages, after an awkward pause. “Though I’m not sure I really know how to date either.”

He’s pretty sure that what he’s feeling isn’t the kind of feeling that would be satisfied purely by sex, however appealing that idea sounds. It’s the kind of feeling that means wanting to get to know Aramis, to spend time with him with his clothes on as well as off, to make him happy.

“So we’ll figure it out,” Porthos replies easily. “Take him somewhere, maybe. A proper _date_ date. And we’ll see how it goes. If you want that?”

“Yes,” Athos decides. “I do.”

He thinks again of Aramis saying _call me_ , of the sadness in his eyes.

“He doesn’t think we will, does he?”

He’s not sure if Porthos had seen it himself – but he sighs around his sandwich. “Okay. So while I don’t know him much better than you do, I’m pretty sure the guy’s a pleaser. Maybe he’s used to being disappointed, I don’t know. We’ll have to be careful with him. I’d imagine it’s not easy to come into an established relationship.”

“Is that what he’s doing?” Athos asks, caught a little off-guard.

He doesn’t think Porthos thought too hard about what he was saying, but it suddenly sounds very – well, serious.

“Potentially, yeah. If that’s what we decide we both want?”

“Well, at least I don’t have to worry about telling my parents,” Athos replies wryly. “So, when do you want to...”

“If it were just up to me? I’d call him and ask if he wants to come over right now,” Porthos admits, casting a nervous glance at Athos.

He supposes he isn’t known for his spontaneity. Or for being particularly forthcoming.

But if he thinks about Aramis – about kissing him again, making him happy – then he supposes it can’t come soon enough.

“If he does, what are we going to say to him?”

“That we’d like to get to know him, and see how it goes. Go on a date, the three of us? I... don’t want to jump straight into bed with him, as tempting as that idea is. I think we need to take it slow.”

“Alright,” Athos replies, before he can chicken out, “call him.”

“Okay.”

Porthos kisses him again, smiling against his lips, before collecting up their empty plates and going through into the living room to find his phone. Athos levers himself out of bed and heads for the shower, ignoring his residual headache – he wants to feel clean and fresh for this at least, even though they’re not exactly planning on doing anything – and turns the water on, drowning out the sound of Porthos’ voice coming from the other room.

He doesn’t quite know how he feels yet, and takes his time dressing, trying to figure it out. This all seems more surreal than anything, he supposes; the version of himself that he knows is someone conventional, who plays it safe. Not someone who lets himself be led by the nose into something he almost wants to call experimental, though when he hears it in his mother’s voice in his head, that pulls him up short.

Well. _Bohemian_ , his mother would probably say. And it is an experiment for the two of them, isn’t it?

He doesn’t know if he can be the kind of person who does a thing like this, although he only has the fuzziest idea of what ‘this’ is going to be. But he likes Aramis, and he wants to find out, and perhaps for now that’s enough.

It simultaneously feels like forever and far too soon when the doorbell rings.

He takes a deep breath and counts to ten in his head before going through into the living room.

Aramis and Porthos are already sitting on either end of the sofa, both looking up warily as he comes in.

“Hey,” Aramis says softly. “We didn’t start without you.”

“Okay,” Athos says awkwardly, and considers sitting on the floor opposite them for a moment before deciding it’ll seem like he thinks Aramis is contagious or something, and reluctantly takes the seat between the two of them.

After realising he doesn’t have a clue what to say next, he turns, as usual, to Porthos. “Do you want to...?”

“Yeah. Alright. So.” Porthos’ hands rub slightly over his knees, and Athos holds his breath. Hoping that Porthos will find the words, because he’s not sure he can.

“We like you,” he says in the end – so simply. “Both of us. So... if you’d like to...”

Aramis grins, something sparkling in his eyes, “Just lead the way –” and _oh_ , Athos thinks, not quite able to look at Aramis for a moment as he realises, _he thinks we’re asking –_

It’s only the realisation that he’s the one sitting next to Aramis and that Porthos is too far away that has Athos putting a hand on Aramis’ knee and saying, “Actually, that’s not what we mean.”

“When we say we like you, we’re not just thinking sex,” Porthos picks up – and Athos envies him his calm honesty, and his ability to get to the heart of the matter, as he finally dares look back at Aramis, who’s blinking at them in astonishment, as if all his confidence of just a few moments before has evaporated.

If there’s one thing Athos recognises, it’s being surprised by just how much other people seem to value you.

“So, where do we go from here?” Porthos prompts.

Aramis blinks. “I – wow. Erm. Wherever you’d like to?”

Athos realises his hand is still on Aramis’ knee.

“We don’t know how this works,” he admits. “We were rather hoping that you would.”

“Right. Okay.” Aramis runs a hand through his hair, looking awkwardly away. “When I said I was poly – I mean, I know I am in my heart, and I’ve read a book or two, but it doesn’t tell you how to do this. And I don’t know, I mean, I haven’t done it before. Maybe – we should all say what we want?”

 _I want to know you_ , Athos thinks unbidden. _I want everything you’ll let me have._

It’s far too soon, of course it is. And he might be wrong – but he knows Porthos is going to be right here with him, and he trusts Porthos to see it through.

“Okay. So Athos and I already talked about this, and we decided we’d like to invite you on a date,” Porthos replies. “To get to know you better. And then everything else we can figure out as we go.”

Athos feels Aramis’ fingers curling round his own.

“I’d like that,” Aramis agrees, his smile tentative. “But – I should warn you both that I don’t settle down well. Or at least, I haven’t so far. And I can’t promise that I won’t fall for other people.”

“So we’ll take it as it comes,” Porthos replies, as if it’s just that easy, as he reaches across Athos’ lap to put his hand on top of both of theirs, “and we’ll deal with it. I mean, we did this time.”

“You – oh,” Aramis finishes quietly, his expression almost comical as he realises what Porthos must mean.

“Yeah,” Athos makes himself say, just about bearing the weight of Aramis’ eyes on him as they turn large and black, before Aramis surges forward and he’s being kissed, swifter and surer than last night, before Aramis leans across him and tugs Porthos to him as well, their lips meeting right before Athos’ eyes.

 _If my parents could see me now_ , he thinks – and realises with a jolt that he still doesn’t know what he’s going to do about that at all.

“Athos? You alright?”

He realises that Porthos and Aramis are both looking at him nervously – as if he has this whole new, fragile thing they are together in his hands, he supposes, and he could still make it shatter.

He doesn’t want to make this about his family yet again, but he knows they’re both going to keep worrying otherwise; and so he makes himself say, “I just realised I still haven’t sent my parents a proper reply. About Christmas. I acknowledged the email and told them I’d confirm, but –“

Slightly to his surprise, it’s Aramis who replies first. “If I can give some unsolicited advice? You two, go. Tell them we’re still together, but... we don’t know where we’re going with this yet, and my family’s expecting me anyway. And if we’re together next year, we’ll decide where to go, the three of us.” He pauses, looking anxiously between them as if he thinks he might have overstepped his bounds. “What do you think?”

“That sounds good,” Athos replies. “I’ve certainly not got a better idea.”

He’s mostly just relieved to have the decision made for him. He can’t help wanting to maintain some sort of relationship with his family, no matter how often he tells himself that his life would be easier without them in it.

It’s probably naïve to tell himself that if he can accept them for the difficult people they often are then they might be able to accept everything they don’t like about him in turn, and yet the thought persists.

He decides to push it from his mind as Aramis clambers over him to perch himself on Porthos’ lap, and he’s tugged into a three-way embrace, a familiar arm around his shoulder and a new one on his waist, and three sets of lips colliding a little awkwardly, but no less heartfelt for it.

For now, he’s going to let himself have this, and worry about everything else later.

 


End file.
